


Anything

by Kalira



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Captain Sparrow-isms, Cutler is a blushing maiden, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, minor Bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalira/pseuds/Kalira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jack gets back his compass, and Beckett gets something he didn't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Set indeterminately, but most likely after Curse of the Black Pearl, and before Dead Man's Chest and At World's End.

Jack crept through the prison gates as quietly as he could. As much as it went against all his instincts, not to mention his years of experience as a pirate, to break _into_ a prison, it appeared as if such an undesirable venture was necessary this, _one_ , time. After all, he could hardly go back to his Lady empty handed and without his effects!

He peered around the corner - no guards - and then flailed his way across the corridor - in a very subtly sneaky way, of course; after all, he _was_ Captain Jack Sparrow - and ducked behind a narrow pillar. He failed to notice as he did so that his sash was protruding.

Cutler stifled a bark of amusement at Jack’s seemingly mad progression through the warren of the prison. Mad as he seemed, Cutler knew there was much more to Jack Sparrow than met the eye. _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, he corrected himself, laughing inwardly.

Finally Jack reached the armoury, and immediately invalidated his previous attempts at silence by setting to creating an awful clamour. A mere few minutes later, he had ransacked most of the shelves and several crates to boot, and there were swords of various - and dubious - qualities strewn randomly about the floor.

When there had been silence for a few more moments, Cutler stepped out into the room, revealing himself, not even attempting to muffle the taps of his shoes on the stone floor, causing Jack to spin on his heel, drawing his sword and pointing it unerringly at Cutler, on a level with his throat.

Cutler was unfazed, and merely drew from his pocket, by its leather lanyard, a familiar small black box. “Looking for this, Sparrow?”

Jack’s sword point dipped a few inches, and a look of resignation came into his eyes. It failed to completely disguise the mental calculations Cutler could almost _see_ Jack performing.

“What do ye want, Beckett?” Jack sighed.

“What? No elaborate set-up? No plan? No protestations that it’s only a compass?” Cutler prodded. He knew he was enjoying this a little too much; after all, catching Jack Sparrow was much like catching the ocean.

He might stay, he might leave, he might help you, or, Cutler swallowed at the remembrance, he might drown you. Above all, he would always, _always_ , do precisely as he pleased. And he’d deal with _you_ precisely as he pleased, to boot.

“What do ye want?” Jack repeated, failing to rise to the bait.

Cutler’s eyes sharpened; they were done playing about, their opening gambits attempted and just as swiftly discarded.

“I want-” _an explanation. The **truth**._ He finished silently.

Cutler sighed in disbelief that he was even _considering_ such an absolutely _mad_ course of action. _Perhaps Jack rubs off on those around him._

Before Cutler could reconsider his decision, he tossed the compass to Jack, who caught it deftly without breaking his gaze with Cutler.

“I want whatever you’ll give me, Jack.” The sentence rushed out of Cutler’s mouth, leaving him breathless and waiting.

Cutler held his tongue, forcing himself not to add anything more. He knew that this course was just as likely to net him a hard blow to unconsciousness - followed, no doubt, with a rude awakening by the returning guards in the morning - as it was to give him a favourable outcome.

But then, again like the sea, there truly was no _forcing_ Jack Sparrow. Even if you did manage it, eventually you would come to realize he’d accomplished _exactly_ what he wanted to in the first place, and left you alone with nothing but dust, confusion and memories.

Jack was examining his compass, opening it and muttering darkly at it, shutting it again and shaking it as if it were stuck before opening it again and scowling at it again, still muttering. While Cutler doubted it was the _truth_ , Jack _appeared_ to be ignoring Cutler entirely in favour of the compass - although his cutlass was still aimed roughly in Cutler’s direction. That was acceptable. Cutler had no intention of approaching him first, in any case.

Suddenly Jack broke the silence. “Whatever I’ll give ye, eh?” Jack grinned momentarily, the relatively low light glinting off of his teeth.

Cutler held his breath, but nodded assent.

Jack simply watched him, solemnly, but with a frank air of appraisal.

“Yes, Jack! God, _anything_!” Cutler finally broke.

Jack grinned widely, his compass snapping closed in his hand. With practiced ease, he slipped the lanyard around into a loop and somehow attached it to his sash.

Jack left his cutlass unsheathed, but he dropped it to his side as he prowled forward predatorily. “ _Any_ thin’? That’s rather a dangerous thing to be promisin’, particularly to a pirate. You sure about that, _Cutler_?”

Cutler forced himself not to turn as Jack proceeded to circle him, though his breath was coming shakily and he was nearly quivering with anticipation and nerves.

“Y-yes.” He got out falteringly, jumping in shock despite himself as a sea-worn hand fluttered delicately across the back of his neck, and, brushing along his collar, was gone the next moment. “ _Please!_ ” Cutler gasped, too far gone to even regret losing his control so thoroughly.

Jack circled Cutler again, finally stopping just before him and looking him critically up and down. Cutler fought back a rising flush, both from his arousal and from the frank way Jack’s gaze was lingering along his body.

Jack leaned in, dangerously close, and whispered into Cutler’s ear. “And what if my sort of, _anything_ , requires,” he brought his cutlass up swiftly, stopping a hair’s breadth from slicing into Cutler’s chin with it. “something a little more. . . _precious?_ ”

Cutler drew in a sharp breath, his arousal not diminishing in the slightest at the obvious threat to his neck.

Jack laughed, almost soundlessly, still leaning in against Cutler’s chest, less than an inch from actually touching him. The puffs of air from Jack’s laugh caressed Cutler’s face tantalizingly, taunting him with the suggestion of touch, but not giving him the actual sensation. “Ah, so that’s the way of it then, is it?” Jack murmured quietly.

Cutler was panting heavily, and he found himself unable to formulate clear words in his thoughts, much less to speak aloud. Fortunately, Jack didn’t seem to need or want a response to his amused question.

Jack used the guard of his cutlass to turn Cutler’s head towards him and tilt it back at a convenient angle. He didn’t resist the rather proprietary move. Jack seemed pleased by this unaccustomed compliance. Jack was the only man, the only _person_ , who had ever managed to wring this sort of response - or non-responsiveness - from Cutler.

Cutler simply ran his tongue over his lips, unable to drag his eyes away from Jack’s own full lips, beautiful, even when, perhaps _especially_ when, they were pulled into a mocking grin. That mouth that proclaimed to all that it knew everything, and often managed to arrange things; words, people, so that it seemed to be truth.

Cutler was mesmerized by that mouth, coming closer and closer until he thought he might die from the tension before they actually made contact with his flesh.

Those laughing, knowing lips brushed teasingly along his own, once, twice, and thrice before completely covering Cutler’s mouth and delving into it. Jack easily dominating the kiss as he had always dominated Cutler, even in those situations when Cutler _should_ rightfully have had the upper hand.

Jack drew back slightly, taunting Cutler with the idea that he might leave, abandoning Cutler in this state, and Cutler’s hands were suddenly clutching at the wide lapels of Jack’s coat desperately, without any such direction from his mind.

Jack laughed into Cutler’s mouth as Cutler followed him, trying mindlessly not to lose contact with him. “So eager, aren’t you. . .” Jack breathed into his mouth.

Cutler simply moaned, incapable of thinking of anything except Jack’s lips on his, Jack’s hands on his body, just _Jack_ himself. The intoxicating, all-consuming passion and madness that made up Captain Jack Sparrow.

Cutler was jerked rudely out of his near hypnotic state by a sharp pain down his right cheekbone. He reared back in a completely instinctual response to the pain.

He opened his eyes - he hadn’t realized he had closed them until that moment - and was confronted with Jack’s smiling face. Cutler reached up with one hand to feel the trickle of blood oozing unrestrainedly down his face, but Jack intercepted him, catching Cutler’s hand in his own, holding Cutler’s wrist hard against the handle of the cutlass.

“Ah-ah.” Jack warned.

Cutler didn’t even think to _try_ it with his other hand, he just allowed the blood to make its way down his face unchecked.

A moment later Cutler gasped in pleasured surprise as his knees buckled. Jack’s tongue was tracing up and across the furthest reach of the blood trail, stroking along the line of his jaw. Jack wrapped an arm around Cutler’s waist, not even pausing in his focus and supporting Cutler easily when his own legs failed to do the job they were made for.

Jack’s tongue worked its way sensuously up Cutler’s face, finally stopping to work at the gash itself, causing sparks of pain to shoot across his face as Jack sucked hard at the bloody wound. But just as the pain shot across his face, pleasure shot down his spine.

Jack drew away, breathing a warm cloud of air teasingly across the tingling and tender slash, still sluggishly seeping blood, and Cutler sucked in a deep breath, realizing now that Jack - Jack’s tongue, specifically - was no longer monopolizing his focus entirely, that sometime in the past minutes he’d stopped breathing completely.

Cutler kept breathing, panting, more like, for the next few, long, minutes, as Jack moved his focus further downwards onto Cutler’s neck, undoing the cravat and buttons handily and starting work again with his tongue.

At that moment, when the third button was slipped free from its hole, Cutler realized his hand was free, though it was still throbbing pleasantly in an after-effect from being pressed together with the sword’s hilt and Jack’s bony fingers sandwiching it and pressing the bones against each other gratingly.

Cutler brought his now-free hand up to Jack’s shoulder, feeling unaccustomedly like a maiden, clutching to her suitor’s strong arms.

He continued to cling helplessly, panting, until long after he had collapsed to the floor in a haze of pleasure, his vision gone misty.

Jack pulled Cutler up again, one strong hand behind his neck, and kissed him fiercely once more, letting him slump back down to the floor after he had finished. Cutler’s nerveless hands released their hold on Jack in the throes of his reaction from that kiss, stacked on top of the aftershocks of pleasure still bouncing, almost painful in their intensity, throughout his body.

Jack stood and retrieved his cutlass from its position where he had wedged it upright between two floorboards, not pausing before sheathing it once more. He certainly wouldn’t need it to deal with Cutler.

He shrugged on his greatcoat and leaned over Cutler’s limp form, still loose and unresponsive from the strength of his climax.

“You will always remember this,” Jack proclaimed, backing away, “as the day that you _almost_ -” Jack tripped spectacularly over a pair of the swords he had discarded earlier - though luckily, they were some of the worst quality swords he’d ever had the displeasure of feeling strike him, and thus did not slice into his legs. It _did_ , however, knock the air out of his lungs.

Struggling upwards, Jack took a deep breath before clearing his throat self-importantly and finishing, with an almost peremptory sort of flourish of his hands, “Captain Jack Sparrow.”

Jack turned dramatically on his heel and swept out of the armoury, heading back to his beloved Pearl, Cutler had no doubt, clapping his hat back onto his head as he went, and whistling a tune Cutler couldn’t quite place. . .

**Author's Note:**

> My beta challenged me to do it!
> 
> Well, all right. That's not quite true. I told her to pick a fandom and pairing she'd heard me talk about, and I would try my hand at writing a drabble. *Ahem* Please excuse me whilst I snicker.
> 
> Still, I was pleased with how it turned out, considering how far away from me this got, in the end.


End file.
